


Coming Undone

by slugmanslime



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied Character Death, Male/Female Fight Scenes, Piccolo is revisiting his youth, Slow Burn, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-07 00:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11047701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slugmanslime/pseuds/slugmanslime
Summary: Goku has been permanently dead for going on four years now, but time hasn't seemed to heal much of anything for ChiChi. Her sons are starting to notice, and bring it to the attention of the only person they can think of: Piccolo. He agrees to do some 'investigative work', but what will happen when he gets too close? Dragon Ball Z and affiliated characters belong to Akira Toriyama! (not me)





	1. Lose Control

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first mult-chapter fic, and it was originally titled "Can't Get Enough"; however, as I was reading through it to start writing the final chapter, I realized how much was screwy about it, so I did some heavy editing! If you've read it before, please give it another shot and let me know what you think :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Piccolo had been looking at her in that moment, he could have seen the exact moment when ChiChi’s expression leapt from shocked to distressed, to disbelieving, to downright appalled. She couldn’t decide what was more disconcerting: the fact that her sons didn’t feel as though they could speak to her about their concerns, or that Piccolo was actually berating her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read "Can't Get Enough" before, you can see that I have changed a good bit, but hopefully it was for the better! The whole reason behind this is that the final chapter is in production and will be posted by the end of the week! I hope you all can forgive me ;~;

It was the third time this week that he had shown up in her front yard in the dead of night. If Gohan, and now her youngest, Goten, hadn’t been so fond of him, the Namekian would have already met the business end of a shotgun long ago. And yet… ChiChi couldn’t quite bring herself to take it from the mantle above her bed, let alone load it. The weapon had been a housewarming gift from her overprotective father, and not surprisingly, it had sat above the mantle all these years collecting dust. The only time it had been close to seeing battle was when she found out this same stoic alien had kidnapped her baby boy all those years ago—but that all turned out for the best, didn’t it? The spitfire woman sighed, passing a hand over her tired eyes.

The moon was three-quarters full, semi-blocked by puffy gray clouds, and the breeze was stronger than usual; it was the end of spring, and summer was right around the corner. The wind rustled the hem of Piccolo’s cape, stirring it around the green strip of his ankles peeking from under his pants. Cast halfway in shadows, and partially in the weak moonlight, he appeared as a waif of his villainous youth, lurking and ominous.

This was the straw that broke ChiChi’s back.

Who was he, thinking he could skulk around her property and scare the pants off her whenever he felt like it? He must assume that she forgave him for his previous theft of her son like some kind of fairytale villian—he would be sorely mistaken! Gohan, the sweet boy he’d grown into, may have convinced her to allow Piccolo’s continued presence around the home, to continue training him and his baby brother… and he did help out with the fields when the season started… not to mention those pesky aphids hadn’t come around since he cleared them out last spring… Argh! But what other choice did she have? Her sons needed a strong figure to help teach them right from wrong now that—

Oh. Damn it, Goku. It was times like this when ChiChi missed her husband so dearly; tonight marked a fortnight from the four-year anniversary of his death while fighting Cell, and she was sure of at least one thing: no matter how much she might miss him, if she could ever forgive him for not coming back was becoming less and less certain with every passing day. She had never been a bitter woman, someone who was so filled with anger and longing and such intense sadness, but being the wife of a fighter could weigh on you. Years, it had been; years of the come and go, the fading intimacy, the struggle to raise to children essentially on your own with dwindling funds. It had never been about the money, no, Ox King made sure his own were looked after.

It was the fact that Goku could never quite figure out who his own was. There were too many people; friends, loved ones, old acquaintances. The family he had made seemed too expansive, too widespread in the adventure that was his life; where could she draw the line? In their forgotten home, high in the mountains, that was the lonely reality that ChiChi lived.

Standing in the front doorway, warm golden light surrounding ChiChi in a hazy golden halo, frying pan in hand, an outsider wouldn’t be able to tell any of this. Standing proud and unafraid was a woman who seemed to radiate strength, balance, and humility. The night hid her weary knees, and her chest rising and falling with shallow, frustrated breaths. She had never, and would never back down from a threat (if a threat this was). That was something Goku had once confided that he loved about her, and she prided herself on; Piccolo would not become an exception to this.

“If you ain’t gonna start talkin’, I suggest you find yer way home, mister.” Her fingers flexed, tightening and relaxing on the slick, solid wood of the pan’s handle, resigned to attempting to control her emotions.

Of course, he didn’t respond at first. Piccolo took his time, a quality of his that she held a certain respect for but at the same time despised. The clouds thinned momentarily, revealing what appeared to be a thoughtful expression etched into his jade features. Irritation and mild confusion spiked in her mind; now, what about what she just said would invoke such a thing?

‘No backing down’, she thought. Her legs carried her forwards, down the worn cedar steps of her front porch and a few feet into the darkness that bled into where the light faded. “Piccolo! Now, I have had just about enough o’ this foolishness. If yer lookin’ for the boys, they’re at Bulma’s for the weekend. From what I heard, I reckon they’re going camping tomorrow, and since I know you can track them, there is absolutely no reason fer you tah be lurkin’ around here.” ChiChi planted her feet firmly, cocking her hip and placing her free fist on it while gesturing with the frying pan avidly.

Of course, without warning, Piccolo stepped from the shadows. His quiet approach startled her internally, making her heart stutter softly. It wasn’t that he advanced upon her quickly at all, no, what was more alarming was the precision he took with every footstep, arms locked across his chest stubbornly. Piccolo didn’t enter her personal space, halting just outside the reach of the flickering porch light, but it was close enough for ChiChi to sense the turmoil brewing beneath his collected façade.

“I’m not here for them. Not this time. I’m here for you.”

The words, coming from anyone else that she knew, would have been comforting, maybe even welcomed given the stress she had been under recently. But how he spoke them, the baritone in his voice making her bones reverberate, put her on the sharpest edge. Hackles raised and eyes narrowed, ChiChi grit her teeth, spine straightening to give her a wee bit of extra height.

“And what business do yah have with me, Piccolo? I ain’t yer pupil, and for the last time, I don’t need yer damned money!” The handle of the frying pan squeaked in protest as she gripped it, twisting it in her sweating palm; subconsciously, her feet slid into an opposing stance, defensive and unreceptive.

She swore for a split second there was a flash of mirth in his eyes, the corners drawing up in a crinkle… or it was a trick of the light. Either way, ChiChi did not appreciate being the butt of some private joke.

“You refuse to let me speak. If you had, you’d know I’m not here about that, this time. It’s about what happened to Goku, and how you’re…” An extended pause, as if he were chewing on a mouthful of words and he couldn’t decide the best one to spit out. “Well, how you’re faring. I know it’s been a long time now but…” He sounded unused to speaking of such trivial matters, as if it were a foreign concept; a strange notion for an alien being, how fitting. Regardless of the humor imbuing the situation, ChiChi absolutely refused to see it, her temper rising to a boil. So it was her feelings that were funny to him, then?

“I wouldn’t say anything if Goten hadn’t brought it up to me first. Your business isn’t my concern but those kids… Regardless. He tells me he doesn’t want you to be ‘sad’ anymore.” Piccolo cleared his throat after a moment, looking over her head at the way she left the front door ajar. “Gohan mentioned how much stricter you are with Goten as he grows. Your fear, or apprehension, whatever it is—you aren’t doing a good job of hiding it from them. Why don’t you ever consider asking for help?”

If Piccolo had been looking at her in that moment, he could have seen the exact moment when ChiChi’s expression leapt from shocked to distressed, to disbelieving, to downright appalled. She couldn’t decide what was more disconcerting: the fact that her sons didn’t feel as though they could speak to her about their concerns, or that Piccolo was actually berating her. The silence between them after Piccolo’s question became almost awkward until the confounded woman could work her mouth again.

It took all ChiChi had to bring them face-to-face, but one moment her frying pan was drooping in her hands, and the next she was three inches apart from him, rearing on her tippy-toes to shout in his face.

“Because I don’t **need** help, especially not from you! Not from the person who almost tore my family apart before it could begin! I’m raisin’ my boys how I they oughta be, and that’s the end of it! I am their mother, and you—” Panting, ChiChi shoved a stocky finger into his chest. “You are  not their father!” Angry tears pricked at her eyes, blurring Piccolo’s face as she glared up at him. It was quite embarrassing, the fact that she only cried when her temper reached its peak, but that was irrelevant in the moment.

The way his eyes stretched was nearly comical, but for Piccolo to stand there and stare the quivering woman before him was the only thing he could do. He took note of how her umber eyes shimmered, the way she bared her teeth at him with insulted fury, how she ground her nail into his gi as if she could dig straight through to puncture his heart. After a solid minute of deliberation, he wrapped his fingers around the wrist responsible for the offending finger, grasping it resolutely a few inches from ChiChi’s face. Piccolo knew when to swallow his pride, and he cared about the Sons… oddly enough, ChiChi included. But he was not going to be bullied by her the way her late husband had been.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, ChiChi. I’m not the reason Gohan and Goten don’t feel comfortable talking to you. Goku has been dead for four years now, so why don’t you suck it up and stop taking out your insecurities on the boys who need you?”

It was absolutely safe to say that Piccolo wasn’t prepared for a frying pan to the side of the head, but he took it like a champ, releasing ChiChi’s empty hand to clutch at his face instead. Violet blood was smearing onto his palms, his ear throbbing and ringing as he gawked down at the furious and somehow equally surprised little woman before him. His shock faded quickly however, replaced almost immediately with anger.

They locked eyes, neither submitting in the battle for control over the situation. Surprise prickled the air like electricity, dancing on the stiff, warm breeze that blew through the clearing, swaying the short grass beneath their feet and fluttering black bangs with warm flecks of blood smeared in them. ChiChi’s hand, cramping from her grip on the handle and the weight she put behind the blow, relinquished the frying pan, allowing it to fall to the dirt with a muffled clang. “You… you need tah leave. Now. You won’t be seein’ the boys any time soon.” Eyes wide and clouded, ChiChi turned on her heel and scuttled towards the door, ultimately submitting in their fight; surprisingly, she made no attempt to retrieve the pan.

A millennium seemed to pass before she made it to the door, stumbling in the house nearly blind from the frightened, shameful tears that finally made their way free. Breathing erratically, she clung to the door handle for dear life, using her body weight to start pushing it closed as she leaned against it for support. ChiChi’s chest was burning, images of Goku laughing swirling in her mind mixed with the sharp smell of alien blood, but all of that was drowned out by Gohan and Goten. Laughing babies with crazy hair, the watery smiles she would get after bandaging up their boo-boos and healing them with kisses, the way their faces lit up coming home to dinner after a day of training. When did all of that begin to fade?

A dirt-caked frying pan was abruptly shoved into the doorway, clanking loudly against the hardwood as the door slammed into it. ChiChi’s yelp resounded through the empty house, the sound startling her more than the sudden appearance of her abandoned cookware. Frozen against the cool wood, she swallowed thickly as Piccolo’s voice floating through the crack, thinly veiled vehemence bleeding into his rumbling tones.

“Open the door, ChiChi. We aren’t done here.”


	2. Fight Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact that ChiChi had gotten violent could only be bad news; the ChiChi that Piccolo knew could use only the verbal threat of violence to sway people’s decisions, hardly ever resorting to using her trusty pan. Perhaps it was her emotional instability that worried him the most; it was palpable in her ki aura, emitting little sparks and ripples in her glow. It had bothered him for weeks now, always pricking the back of his mind when he tried to meditate. He had thought, ‘What’s the harm in confrontation? She’s never hidden things from me before?’ 
> 
> This. This is the harm in confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this is a rework from the original story "Can't Get Enough"; as it progresses you can start to see where things were taken out and replaced, or simply reworded. Thanks for the read, feel free to leave reviews!

“Open the door, ChiChi. We aren’t done here.”

While the living room hadn’t been initially cold, thanks to the mild summer weather that had been blessing the valley the last week, it suddenly became much warmer, almost too warm. ChiChi became aware of crickets chirping in the grass, bats fluttering among the tree branches, the rushing of the river at the bottom of the knoll where their house rested. Her palm left the door knob slick with sweat when she pulled away, allowing Piccolo to swing the door open with an elderly creak, dirty frying pan clutched in one hand.

Dark smears of blood were already drying to his right cheek, his right ear swollen and the tip torn and still dripping. Warm yellow light cascaded from the center of the room, casting ChiChi’s shadow against the wall. The Namek seemed almost serene, obsidian eyes slitted with a fierceness she had only seen him possess in battle. Their poses mirrored each other, arms slack at their sides, mute and cautious. Piccolo was the first to break the silence as he shoved the pan into her chest, gentle enough not to bruise her, ultimately forcing her to catch it before it clattered to the ground once again.

“If you want to take whatever this is out on me, then fine. Your kids don’t need to know, nobody does. But if we’re going to fight, at least use your fists.” The way he spoke was heated and rough, as if he couldn’t quite contain the anger and shock bubbling inside him. That wasn’t to say she didn’t blame him; in fact, the prospect of a fight excited her for the first time since… well, before Gohan was born. But with Piccolo? He had every right to demand this of her now, given her lapse in self-control, and she was surprised he hadn’t already initiated one. Then again, she wasn’t; Piccolo had found balance after merging with Kami, more than he had ever had by himself.

Instead of answering him, ChiChi managed to tear her eyes away from his imposing figure, turning her back to him as she shuffled into the kitchen. The frying pan, one edge caked in moist dirt and pieces of grass, was placed inside the sink delicately, and she turned on the faucet, allowing hot water to fill it. Calloused fingers gripped the edge of the porcelain, squeezing until her knuckles turned white. Gohan was home less and less, either away studying at the library, or training with the very man she had struck. Even Goten wanted to spend more time following the duo around or playing Robot Pirate Brigade with Trunks than at home with her; every day after his lessons, he was out the door like a little rocket. She grew more listless with every passing day, week, month, watching them grow up. They were all that ChiChi had left of the Saiyan she had loved. Poor Goten hadn’t even met his father, which made the fact that he was Goku’s spitting image even more difficult for her; she saw Goku as he was that day by the river all those years ago, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, every time she gazed down at her youngest son.

A squeak in the floorboards as Piccolo shifted his weight broke her train of thoughts, and she blinked, eyes focusing on the overflowing pan before her. Shutting off the faucet, ChiChi turned to face her unwanted house guest, who was looking more and more unsure of his offer. Piccolo’s eyes never seemed to leave her, his brooding expression dredging up feelings that she just wanted to get rid of. So what if he’d tried to support them since Goku had been gone? It’s not like she ever asked him too—in fact, Piccolo was well aware of her desire to be an independent mother to her boys. She had been doing just that for the better part of she and Goku’s marriage, so why did his… death, have to change anything? It was exactly why she became irate every time Piccolo thought to mention it. Maybe now was her chance to prove herself, that she didn’t need him, she didn’t… want him.

“You have yerself a deal.” The worn yellow apron she always donned for housework found its way onto the kitchen table in a wad. There was a fierce determination in her step as she marched past Piccolo, mouth set in a grim line as she shoved her sleeves to her elbow, crumpling the fabric carelessly. ChiChi had a feeling that things were going to get messy; absently, she was glad that she hadn’t finished the laundry today.

While Piccolo allowed her to pass, her shoulder brushing his side, he hadn’t followed her. He was always one for taking his time, observing a situation to calculate the next best move. His patience and his battle prowess proved to be a deadly combination, not only in physical fights but verbal ones as well. And yet, here he was, running his mouth to the hot-headed mother of Saiyan hybrids like he had a bluff that needed calling. He had known ChiChi for years now; they exchanged barbs in nearly every conversation, mostly because they were some of the most bullheaded people you could ever have the misfortune of meeting. Couple this with the love they shared for Gohan and Goten, and the fights only got worse.

The fact that ChiChi had gotten violent could only be bad news; the ChiChi that Piccolo knew could use only the verbal threat of violence to sway people’s decisions, hardly ever resorting to using her trusty pan. Perhaps it was her emotional instability that worried him the most; it was palpable in her ki aura, emitting little sparks and ripples in her glow. It had bothered him for weeks now, always pricking the back of his mind when he tried to meditate. He had thought, ‘What’s the harm in confrontation? She’s never hidden things from me before?’

This. This is the harm in confrontation.

The Namekian took a deep breath, the air tinged with the scent of garden herbs, and sighed. Heavy feet guided him to stand before ChiChi, who had grown impatient in his musings; a hungry glint shined in her eyes, or maybe that was just a trick of the moon, he wasn’t sure. What Piccolo was sure of, however, is how excited ChiChi was. The muscles in her arms rippled as she stretched, and for a moment he saw her in her prime: body covered in lithe muscles, a humble smile paired with ferocious eyes flashing with coy fortitude. Piccolo was young then, as she was, but he remembered something squirming in his gut as he watched her fight, and for once he had momentarily lapsed in his desire for Goku’s absolute destruction.

The memory blurred, shifted, and Piccolo was back in the present as ChiChi was the first to strike, darting forwards on tiger’s feet with a feral smile to match. The blows she struck to Piccolo’s chest were forceful, the resounding thuds echoing in the clearing followed by his soft pants. His thick, corded arms stayed firmly at his side however, his posture shifting only to keep him upright, his right foot shifting backwards for balance; she showed no mercy, regardless. A few more blows to his abdomin and chest left her with aching knuckles and a sense of dissatisfaction at how little he reacted, forcing her to change her angle. Toned calves from hours of standing to cook and clean left the Namek close to reeling as they slammed into his face. The way ChiChi landed on the ground after her kick brought back that familiar squirming feeling, swirling inside him like the spots clouding his vision; perspiration beaded on her furrowed brow, and he blinked, panting, staring down at her.

“I’m getting’ real sick o’ this! You told me to fight with my fists, but this ain’t a fight if you aren’t defendin’ yerself!” Frustration seeped through her words, teeth grit against any desperation that tried to escape with it. Reluctantly, Piccolo’s stature shifted into a more defensive one, rather than that of a punching bag.

This development was enough to please ChiChi it appeared, if the way she leapt at him with renewed fervor was anything to judge by. Blocking her advances was his way of testing the waters, his forearms bludgeoned by her tiny, powerful fists and feet. That squishiness… The more time he spent around the Sons, the more he became of his distinct dislike of this feeling. At first, Piccolo had chalked it up to his respect for her fighting experience, since he had been a witness to her abilities the day that she and Goku became engaged. Maybe it had never gone away because the opportunity to test his skill against her own never presented itself!

But why then, did it strike him whenever she thanked him (albeit begrudgingly) for his help around the property? Why did it assail him when he caught sight of her smiling when her boys came running through the door for dinner after their training sessions? Damnit, why did Piccolo have to wrestle with it even now when ChiChi was obviously trying to knock his block off?!

The chorus of rushing river water and nighttime creatures combined provided the background for their intimate spar, transforming into a backdrop to their cacophony of grunts, gasps, and growls. As time marched on into the cool dead of night, the cicadas came out to sing, drowning out the previous harmony of the forest. The sharp trill of their screaming ignited the tempo of the fight, giving the more experienced fighter, Piccolo, the upper hand. Not that he abused it of course; ChiChi slipped up once or twice, leaving her coughing and retching from a particularly brutal blow to her gut. Perhaps it was too nice of Piccolo to pause and allow her time to recover, but he was nothing now but the champion of a fair fight; a far cry from the demon he had spawned from all those years ago. ChiChi on the other hand, simmering with pent-up anguish and the nearly overwhelming desire to come out on top for once with the hand that life had dealt, refused to be the one left on the ground this time.

Her late husband was not the only one with a thick skull, and the unsuspecting Namekian was forced to learn this the hard way. One moment, he was debating whether to help her up from the dirt or not, and the next, a jet-black missile launched itself halfway through his stomach, effectively expelling all the air from his lungs. Just to add insult to injury, once she managed to rise to her feet, ChiChi clasped her fists together and summarily brought them down right between his antennae with a shout. He could have sworn Nail and Kami felt it as well, considering how tender the spot was (good riddance, serves them right for always bugging him during a spar).

As if their fighting had been synchronized to the forest, while the duo panted and attempted to catch their breath, the shrieking of the cicadas faded, replaced by the mellow concerto of the night. ChiChi hadn’t felt this aware of herself in ages, it dawned on her then; every blooming bruise, every nick in her skin, every drop of blood oozing from the cuts—her body was thrumming with energy and exhausted all at once. And here she was, swaying if not standing above the tallest man she knew, who was groaning ever so softly as he knelt in the grass at her feet. But warm pleasure in the pit of her stomach was ignited when the Namek finally gazed up at her. His lip was split, and his ear even more swollen than before, but his usual gruffness was replaced by a fond smile, his eyes shimmering with something that sent ChiChi’s heart into her throat.

“I think I understand now why Goku loved you… ChiChi.”

ChiChi felt the pain, confusion, and isolation she had harbored for the whole planet start to boil over. The faint handprint on his cheek didn’t register to her until the stinging in her palm brought her back to reality, crouched before him with tear-blurred vision. Of course, he didn’t seem to mind, barring the slight bewildered expression that replaced the warm, rarely open one he had worn. Choking back a tired, worn sob, ChiChi sank to her knees, fists curled into her chest.

“Stop talkin’ about him! If he really ever loved me at all, that was a **long** time ago, and he’s gone now, anyways. If he- if he really loved me, or the **boys** , or his friends- he woulda come back! Doesn’t he know I need him? Doesn’t he get how hard this is sometimes? Doesn’t he know what- what it’s like tah be… alone?” Afraid. That’s what she was, at the root of it all. She suffocated Gohan and Goten, struggling to keep them close to her while her anger at the world, at Goku, spilled over into her relationship with them. And here she was, pouring her heart out to the most emotionally inexperienced person quite possibly on the planet.

‘No shit, you giant green lump. Are you just going to stare at her?’ Nail grumbled subconsciously.

‘I’m working on it, pipe down!’ Piccolo growled internally, panic creeping in. Why did everything that came out of his mouth make her cry all of a sudden?

Shifting his body, Piccolo put himself eye-level with her warily, as if ChiChi was some wild beast that would attack at the slightest provocation. That gross, squirming feeling wrenched wildly at the sight of her bloodshot, watery brown eyes; her soft huffing and the crinkling of her nose made it apparent how hard she was trying to not let the tears escape.

“I have to be honest with you… I don’t think he ever did. People always flocked to him, searching for help or wanting some of his time. Goku never really wanted that but, he took it in stride. Staying dead was the most selfless thing he’d ever done, in his eyes. He loved you, ChiChi, he wanted to protect you. To protect all of us.” As he spoke, her entire expression softened, the fight slowly draining out of her to leave a vulnerable shell… something Piccolo had never witnessed before; their faces were inches apart, their breath mingling.

“Would it make me a bad wife if I wanted him all to myself? No… would it make me a bad friend?” It was a relief for him when she averted her eyes, bringing a hand up to cup her own cheek in thoughtful distress. Piccolo felt like he could breathe again, his heart relaxing now that he wasn’t caught in her stare. She looked rough, honestly; her hair was tangled, hanging limp down her back, and her face was red and blotchy from her onslaught of tears.

The Namek had developed a soft spot for small, defenseless things since he’d kidnapped Gohan as a child, against his will of course. But… here he was, timidly reaching out to place his own clawed hand over the small, muddy one she had pressed against her face; his fingers were so much longer than hers that his claws slid into her hair, coarse and soft at the same time.

The path of the moon seemed to pause, cricket song and the sound of flowing water disappearing behind the blood rushing in his ears. ChiChi stiffened under his touch, not in fear, rather, in surprise; he was aware of her fingers wriggling under his hand, as if to determine that he was really touching her.

“You’re not a bad wife. Or a bad mother. Your kids love you more than anything, ChiChi. I just wish you knew that you aren’t actually alone.” That sounded suspiciously friendly and there wasn’t anything Piccolo could do to keep Nail from snickering at him distantly. Not that he cared; no, the only thing he was focused on was the way that ChiChi looked at him.

Like he was the only thing she could see. Like he had shown her an oasis in the middle of the desert. Like he was… not Goku, but something damn close.

The night had become cooler, but Piccolo’s face was warm, blush spreading from the tip of his ears to the hollow of his throat. He couldn’t help but notice how thick her hair was, encasing his fingers as he pushed his hand forwards into her inky locks. Oddly enough, the sniffling woman seemed appreciative of the motion, her own hand abandoning her cheek as her head reluctantly leaned into his hand.

It wasn’t on purpose, he would try to convince himself later. The moon had shone down on her skin just right, making ChiChi glow like a warrior queen and making his heart sputter indignantly. Just like that, his lips pressed against her forehead and left a purple smear of blood, marring the porcelain shade—but it was more of the way that she gaped up at him in surprise that had him kicking himself. A reflex that he had picked up from this very woman—when someone you love is hurting, kisses make them feel better right?

Even though Piccolo had tensed for another slap, or perhaps a punch this time, he was met with nothing but ChiChi’s laughter. It started off as a few stunned, hesitant giggles, but quickly morphed into squeaky belly laughs. Her eyes were dry now, the grin on her face making them squint, and she wrapped her grubby fingers around his wrist, holding his hand in place as if she didn’t want her episode to drive him away.

Great, she finally snapped. Now what? 


	3. Cut Your Losses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now jus’ what do you think yer doin’? If you want to fight, then let me go and hit me like a real—” Piccolo used his grip on her hands to jostle her, the shake he gave her wiggling her down to her toes and summarily shutting her up for a moment.
> 
> “When are you going to let go, ChiChi? Goku did what he could with his life, and now it’s your turn. You get to make your own decisions, and live your own life how you want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are changing even more, but for the better I promise! And when the final chapter goes up there will be sloppy makeouts and even more ;)

She wrapped her grubby fingers around his wrist, holding his hand in place as if she didn’t want her episode to drive him away as she fought for control over her subsiding giggles. Once in control again, ChiChi shot him an apologetic look, her lips still crooked upwards as she took in the bafflement etched into his features.

Slowly, she disentangled his fingers from her hair, and his stomach dropped. This was it, this was going to be round two. When she withdrew, leaving his skin cooler than normal, she was still smirking but at least looked abashed, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. By the time ChiChi made direct eye contact with him, the despair she had been fighting earlier had lessened but was still ever present. Piccolo’s bold display of physical comfort left her simultaneously yearning for more and disgusted with herself. She was still married!... Wasn’t she?

“Goodness gracious, Piccolo… I would hope that ain’t how you comfort all of yer friends…” Chichi teased him, hoping to mask her own discomfort and unease with the turn that the night had taken. He responded by flashing his fangs, a sneer lingering on his face as he dragged a clawed appendage over the blood tracks from his busted lip.

A bloody gob of spit landed near her right, a back-handed affront that needed no explanation. “I don’t have any friends to comfort. Besides, I just slipped, accidents happen.” That was a total lie, and they both knew it, but the fact that she was willing to injure his pride to salvage hers wasn’t worth the argument it would erupt into.

“You… slipped? Piccolo, don’t be childish.”

“Me? The childish one? Says the woman who can’t have a rational talk about emotions without bashing someone’s head in. Goten can discuss his feelings better than you can.” With a flurry of fabric, Piccolo towers over her, casting a bleaker darkness over the spot in which she knelt with his broad shoulders. That youthful malcontent ChiChi had noted earlier in the evening was back with a vengeance, and it suddenly dawned on her just what it was Piccolo was doing.

When was the last time **he** had engaged in a meaningful conversation with _anyone_ about emotions? How much practice did he have in exerting empathy or sympathy for others? This process was most likely just as awkward and painful for him as it was for her, and here she was, riling him up like a hunting dog on the scent of game. His inexperience was the ham hock on the cutting block, and she held the cleaver—which was how she usually liked it, but somehow, right now, it felt… wrong, almost rude. She had been awful to him tonight, the only person who she could count on consistently to look after not only her family but herself included. Oh Kami… ChiChi wilted under the weight of her own thoughts, her doubts and fears swirling inside her mind like a hurricane. There was no way she could apologize now, the damage had been done.

For a moment, the harsh, brooding Namekian that had practically adopted her sons and trained them, guided them, had opened himself up to her. Piccolo had been vulnerable with her for a split second, and ChiChi stomped all over him. Not only did she just rebuff his attempts at being an outlet for her internalized agony and self-depreciating loneliness, but he was… openly affectionate. It made her chest constrict painfully, thinking of how Goku rarely kissed her, or held her. She knew he loved her when it counted—she had two beautiful sons thanks to him—but to be around for them, and to give her company when she needed it most? She had Piccolo to thank for that. ChiChi felt sick.

A cold sweat broke out on her skin, dewing in the chilled night air. Her epiphany ran through her mind lightning quick, although it felt like it took her ages to connect the dots. Disdain fell away in the face of mortification, and ChiChi blinked, wringing her hands abashedly as she searched for the right words. “Look, Piccolo, I… I appreciate what yer doin’ here and all, but I…”

“You what, ChiChi? I refuse to let myself be embarrassed here. If you lie, I can lie too. You don’t need any help? Then I slipped.” With every syllable his voice slipped closer and closer to a hiss, arms wrapped tightly across his chest. After a moment of clambering, ChiChi stood as well, fists clenched at her sides while she floundered for an appropriate response that didn’t involve an outright apology.

“You got me tah admit that I was scared, at least! Whadya you want, a medal or something?” Angry fists splayed out into exasperated jazz hands as ChiChi threw out her arms, expectant for some kind of validation for such a simple act. After a brief moment, her posture slumped, arms falling back to her side once more.

Shining fangs peeked out from Piccolo’s scoff, resentment burning like bile in the back of his throat; this wasn’t his ChiChi, pathetic and shaken. His ChiChi was strong, determined, kind and loving and above all understanding. She was the stubborn current guiding the people she loved in the right direction even when they tried to stray. Now here she was, floundering in the spray, unable to determine up from down.

“You shouldn’t have allowed it to get this bad, ChiChi. Look at you.” A single, thick finger curls under her dimpled chin, tilting her face upwards. Her brow was puckered, her embarrassed frown out of place on her expression; she chewed her lip as he spoke, nervous about his proximity. “You’re gonna let Goku make you grey before your prime, and he’s been buried for years now. Isn’t it time you let him be in peace?”

Of course, at the mention of her deceased husband, a light flickered on in her eyes, her lips drawing up into something feral; Piccolo set off yet another landmine. In the back of his mind he wondered when the day will come that he managed to catch a break from these Sons. They had too many damn emotions for him to deal with and get out alive.

Any other thoughts he could have had are drawn short as hands, tiny compared to his own, shoved at his diaphragm; not chest, exactly, ChiChi wasn’t quite tall enough, but her palms jammed into the space right below his ribcage once, then twice, and thrice with increasing force. Another gust of warm summer wind rustled through the clearing, pushing errant wisps of long hair into both of their faces as she glared up at him, hands still splayed on his midsection while her chest heaved.

The moon had reached its crescendo in the sky while the pair drug on their stare down, both unwilling to move a muscle let alone blink. ChiChi’s palms were pinpricks of warmth against the cool, rough fabric of Piccolo’s gi, digits twitching every few seconds as she battled against pulling away. Toads bellowed in the distance, their croaking mimicking the rhythm of her heartbeat. Whether it meant he won or lost, Piccolo was the first to move; one massive hand snaked atop both of her own, effectively pinning her in place. Her stunned and mildly offended expression was enough to crack his hard veneer, a smirk quirking on his lips, before his fingers curled around her hands and he pulled upwards. ChiChi, unsuspecting of such callous behavior, was yanked against his chest abruptly, a startled noise spilling from her lips crossly.

“Now jus’ what do you think yer doin’? If you want to fight, then let me go and hit me like a real—” Piccolo used his grip on her hands to jostle her, the shake he gave her wiggling her down to her toes and summarily shutting her up for a moment.

“When are you going to let go, ChiChi? Goku did what he could with his life, and now it’s your turn. You get to make your own decisions, and live your own life how you want to.”

His grip is bordering on bruising, his aim not to hurt so much as to get her attention, and while ChiChi understood, she didn’t have to like it. She writhed in his grip, twisting this way and that as she groused at him. “I know that! Why won’t yah let this go? Why does it bother you so badly?” It was kind of amusing, watching her wiggle and fuss in his grip, like a snake in the talons of a falcon. What wasn’t so amusing is when ChiChi kicked him in his poor, unguarded shin with all her might.

Piccolo uttered a guttural growl and released his grip on her almost immediately, shoving her away with a fraction of the power he actually possessed, yanking up his leg to hold the offended calf. ChiChi hit the ground with a soft ‘oof’, catching herself before she sprawled on the ground and sitting on her rump, fingers spread out to her sides as they pressed into the wet dirt.

When the line shifted from an argument back to the fight was unclear, but aggression was mounting, tension crackling in the air. Piccolo stooped with a whirl of his cape to crouch atop the smaller woman, soaking the knees of his pants in dewy patch of grass they were flopped on. His broad chest blocked out any watery moonlight that could have allowed her a better view, and yet, the darkness where his eyes would be was all she could focus on. A heavy white drape formed around the duo, Piccolo’s cape creating a cocoon and trapping their simmering emotions. ChiChi wasn’t going to take that laying down of course, and wriggled beneath him, shoving at his chest and kicking her legs with little snarls and stinging curses.

His agitation mounting, Piccolo fisted a hand in her hair, not pulling enough to hurt her but definitely tugging it enough to put them face to face.

He quietly observed her writhing beneath him, pawing at his chest, fingers scrabbling in the fabric of his gi while her eyes squeezed shut; he knew that after their earlier fight, she was going to wear herself out sooner or later and well… he liked the view. It was an out of body ordeal, something he would never admit to of course; there was just something so intoxicating about the expressions she made, the breathy rasping groans she released into the space between them, her hand’s frantic search for purchase against his skin.

“ChiChi…” Piccolo’s usual gravelly baritone was an uneven whisper, stunning his own ears. His grip slacked fractionally, enough for his captive to open those stunning, flaming eyes and glare up at him with enough fury to set a weaker man ablaze. Of course, he would deny the open way he gazed down at her, soaking in every minute detail of her face, glowing with anger and a youth he remembered from so long ago.

What Piccolo couldn’t deny was the way his lips felt pressed against hers. Anxious and harsh, there was no finesse to the way he mashed their mouths together, breathing harshly through his nose. And it was the last thing ChiChi was wanting or expecting at that very second.

Calloused hands shoved at his face, blunt nails digging into his cheeks, but they found no purchase against the residual spit and blood coating his cheeks. Something akin to an enraged howl bubbled in her throat and spilled hotly against his lips. It did not serve its intended purpose to dissuade the dogged Namekian; instead, it elicited a much fiercer growl from him, reverberating in the space between them. Heat washed over her body, lighting all her senses on fire—her scalp was aching, lips and skin tingling, hands sweating as they balled into the Piccolo’s gi… and pulled him closer.

Stunned by her sudden attitude adjustment, Piccolo’s lips retreated from hers by a hair, their shared panting mingling in the space left between. There was no light, no way to see, but he didn’t need light to know exactly how she looked, he could feel it. Their noses, one small and blunt, the other large and curved at the tip, skimmed each other, the unconscious trembling caused by the adrenaline that had flooded their systems going by unnoticed.

“I spent my life waiting on him… Now he ain’t comin’ back.” If not for his incredible hearing, Piccolo would have missed her whispered confession. Her fists were clenching and unclenching in his gi, pulling the fabric taut across his back every so often. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this…”

“As if you could control anything, ChiChi. This isn’t your fault.” Piccolo sent a silent thanks to Kami for the brief swell of compassion he felt. Feather-light and nervous, wide, flat lips brushed against plump, chapped ones—more of a silent query than the brutish demand he exerted earlier. ChiChi responded with a peck, a press of lips followed by a retreat. She was being… shy? After everything that just happened?

“Piccolo, you never answered me. What _are_ you doin’?”

“You said you were lonely. I’m… I’m proving you wrong.” That was a smaller truth, one he felt comfortable admitting. Of course, it felt like his chest was going to explode, but how was he supposed to tell her that if he didn’t kiss her he would combust? If he ended up making something awkward, or if he said something callous, he would just have to deal with it. “Being the mate of a Saiyan has worn you down to this pitiful state. But I’ve known you long enough to be sure that this isn’t who you are.” Years had come and gone, battles and wounds, heartache and happiness and family, and Piccolo had always been there, an unwilling fixture in ChiChi’s life since the day Son Goku asked her to be his wife.

“You think yah know me so well, don’t yah?” Her nose drew up in a scrunch, he could feel her skin sliding against his own. In the darkness, his mouth drew up into an rare genuine smile—one that she couldn’t possibly see.

“I’d say so. The ChiChi I know is a fighter—I thought I saw her earlier when you were handing my ass to me.”

ChiChi scoffed. “Of course, I’m still a fighter! The rascals I hang around keep me on my toes, no matter how much I want a simple life.” Her grip relaxed, releasing the fabric and instead she clasped her hands around his neck, arms hanging limp. She wondered if he could tell that her glare lacked any heat. Who was he to assume that just because she was down on her luck that she’d lost herself?

“Oh yeah?” Was he… was he laughing at her? She might not have been able to see him, but there was a kind of humor in his voice that was unmistakable—she heard it in Gohan’s all the time. Just when she managed to get her heart rate back under control, it stumbled inside her chest thinking of Piccolo's devilish toothy smile—the one he liked to hide but she was so fond of. Fumbling as it was, when he spoke again, ChiChi's heart did a faceplant.

“I think you miss the adventure sometimes, even with your simple life. Maybe I can help you with that?”

A pert, pink tongue darted out to wet her lips before she responded. “And just how do yah plan on doin’ that?”

Piccolo hummed thoughtfully, sending shivers of gooseflesh up her spine as he nosed the shell of her ear. “Why don’t I start by showing you what it feels like to not be lonely?”


End file.
